“No, no way. You’ve got much more to explore there. And you will—there’s plenty of time for more of those. But these interiors turned out beautifully. More for the portfolio. They show your range,” he says significantly. But he doesn’t say the rest, which both relieves and frustrates me. I want him to say it now—maybe I would say yes. Just for the hell of it, just to prove that I can, and to see the pleasure it would bring him.
“I do think you should go back to the city, though,” he continues, a bit brusquely. “I really noticed a leap in your skills when you went, and I think it would push you further, in a way staying home and staying local simply cannot.” I let the silence stretch and distend between us, with Paul waiting for me to promise I’ll go there right away, go tomorrow—like I did the last time he suggested this.
“I’ve been so busy,” I lie, speaking at last. “I’ve had to stay close to home.”
“I see,” is all he says, and I can sense him studying me, studying my face and the way my hands clench together at my waist, smothering the truth between them.
27.
“I’m sure I don’t need to point out that most of these phenomenal photographs were taken in New York City,” Paul says toward the end of our next class. “If you’ve been there—I’m sure you’ve made the trek all the way from New Jersey at some point—then you know how the city stirs the imagination and provides endless chances for amazing shots.”
Paul’s lecture on the great street photographers of recent years is like a taunt; I’ve spent a week doing nothing, stifling my imagination, denying any chance at all for taking “amazing shots.” Could Paul know, somehow, that I haven’t touched my camera in days? Instead, I’ve focused on large-scale domestic chores: sorting through boxes in the bedroom closet, clearing the attic of old toys and board games, dropping several loads at the donation center. I’ve felt useful and noble, standing dirt-streaked and sweaty in the shower after these long, physical days. Simple days. Empty ones, too.
When I set the camera down in the bathroom, more than a week ago now, I picked it up once, later, to retrieve the film roll, then I set it down again. I left it sitting there, day after day. It wasn’t a decision I made, but simply something that happened. I couldn’tstopit from happening. I finally asked Tom to carry my camera to the darkroom for me—mainly so I wouldn’t have to see it every time I used the toilet or sink—and he gave me a questioning look but complied. I know I’vedone right, because I haven’t seen the man or heard his hateful voice in over a week.
What’s new is the gnawing emptiness. It lands with full force when I wake in the morning, giving me the foggy sense that I’ve misplaced something; then the sense of loss grows until I name it, acknowledge what’s happened, and along with that, who or what I’ve become:Mrs. Judith Stanley, mother and housewife—that’s all.
But what’s caused this? The camera’s sudden absence, or the man’s?
I thought about quitting the class. What was the point, if I was no longer taking photographs? And what would I say when Paul asked for my photos? But I told myself my sudden quitting would worry Tom—even if he didn’t love me going to the class—so here I am, staring at the vibrant images up on the overhead, most of them taken by Garry Winogrand, Lee Friedlander, Diane Arbus, and Robert Frank. I feel a faint stirring at the sight of them, like a sleeping foot tingling—painfully—back to life. I’m so caught up that I’m only half-aware of Paul, standing center stage with his hands on his hips, looking pleased with himself.
“I’m sure you’ve all long since lost your syllabus,” he says to laughter. “And have probably forgotten about our field trip to the city next Friday.” I sit, stunned for a moment. I’m not a twenty-year-old and yet I forgot all about it in the blur of the last weeks. Now I remember Paul mentioning it to me directly, and seeing it on the syllabus long ago. I look up to find Paul staring at me.
“We’ll leave from Harrington station at nine o’clock and spend the day there. If you can’t go, you’d better have a really great excuse. Dead grandma or a sudden, debilitating illness.” The students laugh again, and Paul glances around the room while I avoid his gaze.I won’t go. I’ll make up an excuse, it doesn’t matter. It’s not as if I care about my class grade.But I know Paul will be disappointed, and I hate the thought of disappointing him, even as I sit here, empty-handed, having set my camera aside.
“So, show up at the station next Friday with your cameras and as many rolls of film as you can comfortably carry. We’ll visit a gallery first to see the Samantha Laertes exhibit. Remember the slides I showed you last week? Powerful stuff, and the show is getting great reviews. Then we’ll hit the streets. Any questions?”
After a brief cascade of questions, class winds to a close. I want to slip out quickly, but students block the aisle in small groups, chatting about the trip as I try to push past them up the stairs. I’ve almost made it to the door when Paul calls my name.
I could ignore him and just keep walking. But I can’t. I could never ignore Paul—or be rude enough to ignore any professor’s summons. I turn and walk down, facing the curious looks of my fellow students; one of them is Charlie. But her look is softer, more companionable somehow. Like she’s telling me it’s all right, she’s on my side. I catch her smile and feel buoyed by it.
Paul eyes me when I step to the lectern empty-handed.
“No pictures today?”
“No. It’s been a busy week.” He nods but looks let down. His disappointment feels like a steady pressure against my temples. A headache forming.
“You’ll be there next Friday?”
“Yes, I’m—looking forward to it.” I meant to say the opposite, of course, but the words failed me.
“Good,” Paul says. He’s clearly relieved. “I may have planned this for the whole class, but I’m mainly happy we’re going foryou.”
“Oh.” I can’t hide my uncomfortable pleasure or my swiftly reddening face. “That’s…so nice of you to say, Paul.”
He gives a soft laugh. “It isn’t nice, Judith. I’ve told you before—I’m not encouraging you out ofniceness. I want you to take more pictures in the city, and I think Samantha’s work might inspire you, too. So…I’ll see you on the platform next Friday at nine a.m. sharp, yeah?” He holds my gaze. What can I do but nod my throbbing head and saygoodbye?
28.
“What kind of college class goes on a field trip?” Tom asks, brow scrunched over the hunk of bread he’s torn from the warm loaf on the restaurant table between us. As he slathers it with butter, I remember Paul’s words:I’m mainly happy we’re going foryou.How he leaned on theyou. If Tom knew, he’d be furious. I drain the last of my wine and ask the waiter for another.
“I don’t understand why you’d go when you aren’t even interested in taking pictures anymore,” Tom continues, eyeing the fresh glass of red—my third tonight. I always drink more than usual during our Saturday dinners out, but a third glass must strike him as wild. Ifeelwild. I’ve felt this way ever since Tuesday night’s class—a reversal of the deadness I felt in the days before. A reversal that briefly transforms my terror into reckless joy at the thought of using my camera in the city again, of risking yet another encounter with the man. I’ve convinced myself I’ll be safe, tucked inside the large class group, ushered through the streets by Paul. The man wouldn’t dare approach me then, would he? The wine says he would not. The wine says I’ll be fine. Better than fine. It gives me a kind of giddy power as I try to reason with Tom.
“I haven’t been taking pictures lately, but that doesn’t mean I’ve given it up. I just—needed a break. And needed to take care of some housework. The field trip isn’t negotiable, Tom. It’s a class requirement. It’s not up to me.”
Tom keeps his eyes on his buttery bread; I wait for him to say it isn’t a real class or that I should quit the class anyway, or that he doesn’t trust Paul, but instead, he simply nods.
“Just be careful, Judy,” Tom says once he’s swallowed his bread and chased it with wine. He, too, is drinking more than usual; maybe that’s why it’s been easy to sway him. “Callers can be stalkers, too, you know. I haven’t wanted to say this before, but this guy could be following you. When you’re out taking pictures, or even just running errands in town. It drives me crazy, thinking of it. Who’s to stop him from following you into the city, too?”
